


you can take these memories from my head

by crookedsaint



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: (and alcohol), (stay safe yall), Angst, M for Language (and weed), M/M, Responsible drug use, angst but also kissing about it, i'm a lesbian i'm allowed to say that about her, mean lesbian rivers rosa, mike townsend (flirts with the worst men he can find), nd king declan suzanne
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:29:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27580729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedsaint/pseuds/crookedsaint
Summary: Tillman was gone, and you could count the number of players who grieved him on two hands, provided you had enough extra thumbs. Mike Townsend, on the other hand, was back. Mike was at a party, and Declan was also at that party, and everything that happened at said party was perfectly understandable.(or: Declan Suzanne deserves better, god damn it.)
Relationships: Mike Townsend/Declan Suzanne, Past Tillman Henderson/Declan Suzanne
Comments: 18
Kudos: 43
Collections: We Are Fanwork Creators





	you can take these memories from my head

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to zo and ferrets once more for letting me bother them with my kissin' boys! and to chicago as a whole for betaing this!
> 
> all of this is actually canon-compliant aside from home/away game distinctions, because if i'd spent any longer staring at reblase i would never have written the fic
> 
> (title and opening lyrics are both from language by chewing on tinfoil, which is a PRIME mikelan tune so check it out)

_“you're not a failure, you're not a martyr, you're not the only one lost at sea_

_i have seen things that made me stronger and i have felt the shore pining for me”_

_-language by chewing on tinfoil_

Season 9, Day 64

“ _Oritz Lopez batting for the San Francisco Lovers! Meanwhile, Henderson is still debating Davids’ ground out. If you’ll look to the stands, fans have begun to chant ‘ban the ground’ in re—_ ”

“Suzanne, get them to turn that shit off. I’m trying to get drunk over here.” Rivers slammed her beer can down on the bar. “We’re at a Dale afterparty and you’re watching _blaseball._ Fuck is wrong with you.”

“ _—appears he has been incinerated. Yes, we’re getting confirmation that Tillman Henderson has been incinerated, folks! Get your champagne ready!”_

A cheer erupted, tinny and distorted and barely anything under the thudding bass.

“Bartender? Yeah, hi, famous blaseball player Rivers Rosa here. Turn off the game or I’ll chop off your hands.” She tapped the blunt end of her axe on the bar, impatient. “I’ve heard enough about Tillman _fucking_ Henderson for a lifetime.”

“Uh, Rivers?” Joshua nudged her. “You might not wanna say that so loud.”

“I’ll say whatever the fuck I want,” she snarled. “That little shit was everything I hate about blaseball and more. Now I’m never gonna have to wake up and make weird kitchen small talk with him. Right, Suzanne? You’re above necrophilia?”

“Rivers, come on. I’m taking you back to the hotel. Declan, I’m sorry, she’ll apologize tomorrow once she’s slept it off.”

“...Suzanne?”

-

Season 9, Day 78

“ _And… Declan Suzanne strikes out swinging! That’s game over, folks! Crabs win!_ ”

Declan Suzanne sure as hell did strike out swinging, and Declan Suzanne stormed off the field, and Declan Suzanne slammed his locker shut with all the strength he could muster. _Declan Suzanne_ ’s day just went bad to _nightmare._

“What did that locker do to you?”

“Fuck off, Lou.”

Footsteps, a little frantic, backing away from him. “Geez, Dec. I get it, you need space.” They sighed. “You did your best, kid.”  
He whipped around, meeting their pitying gaze head-on. “Hey, Lou, what part of fuck off don’t you understand?”

Rivers stood up from the bench. “Hey, back off. It’s not their fault you lost us the game, asshole.”

“I’m not gonna _back off._ ” His head snapped towards her. “You’re the one who kept handing them homers.”

“Oh, so Mister Hit-A-Ground-Out-To-A-Peanut wants to talk big now, huh?”

“Rosa. Suzanne.” Joshua’s tone had a quiet warning behind it, an echo of the Dispatch underlying his words. “If you’re going to pick a fight, pick it outside. We have to keep our vibes up.”

“Oh, our vibes! Our supreme _fucking_ vibes.” Declan’s breath quickened. “King of vibes, that’s me! Vibes so good that even the Fridays can’t compete! Yeah, I’ll be sure to _keep my vibes up,_ asshole.”

Lou took a step towards him. “Declan, it’s not like we haven’t noticed, but—”

“But what?” He slammed his fist against the lockers. “It’s not like anybody thought to ask, hey, Declan, how are you? Did you see the news last night? You need a shift off this week? No, it was all hey, _Dec,_ ” he mimicked, “Why weren’t you at batting practice? Suzanne, the hell do you have the TV on so loud for? Declan, why’s your room such a fucking mess? What’s wrong with you, Suzanne?” He laughed, short and bitter. Quieter, to himself: “What _is_ wrong with you, Suzanne?”

Guilt flashed over Rivers’ face, if only for a moment. “What, you wanted us to treat you with kid gloves just ‘cause Tillman Henderson finally croaked?”

“Is that what this is about?” asked Justice, to no one.

“All I’m asking is for people to—to—” he waved his hands in some approximation of the cacophony in his head. “No, fuck it, it’s better this way. Just leave me alone ‘til I wear myself out, right? Declan’s just having an _heated gamer moment_ as usual, that’s all!”

Lou reached out to touch his shoulder, hesitant. “We figured… well, we figured you needed space.”

“Not like anything you did contradicted that, holed up in your room like you were,” added Isaac.

Justice turned her unseeing gaze on him. “You seemed otherwise occupied for over a week. Forgive us for assuming you wished to continue your isolation.”

Swamuel croaked supportively.

“Listen, I just—” Declan clenches his fists tighter, feeling his nails start to press into his palms—too long, they’d gotten too long, he hadn’t cut them since— “You know what? Fuck this. I’m walking home. Keep up the good work, everybody. I’ll be playing Minecraft for the next twelve hours straight and pretending I’m fine.”

-

Season 9, Day 78 plus a little more

Because the Blaseball Gods hated Declan, it started raining on the way back to the Firehouse proper.

He flopped down onto his couch facefirst. Because the Blaseball Gods had a sense of humor, he landed on the remote. 

“— _f you’ll look to the stands, fans have begun to chant ‘ban the ground’ in reply! This is looking close, folks_ — _and there it goes. Here we go! Judging by the smoking pile that used to be camera three, it appears he has been incinerated. Yes, we’re getting confirmation that Tillman Henderson has been incinerated, folks! Get your champagne r_ — _”_

Declan rooted around the cushions for the remote. It was just like him to leave this shit playing (again, playing again and again, trying to catch the flash that nobody filmed, that everyone wishes they could air, the shot worth millions of dollars because no one in the world ever wanted to see Tillman in life but of course his walk into Hades is paved in fucking _gold_ —)

“— _seems the fans are now_ blasting _Henderson’s recent guest single off of Away Games_ — _let’s cut the sound, now, we don’t want a copyright strike on our hands at a time like this, ha ha!_ ”

The TV switched off. His apartment was pitch black.

“Fuck my life.”

He tugged the blanket down off the back of the couch. It still stank of the time he’d gone down to the marina with Tillman—still in his pajamas because he wasn’t a coward, was he?—and gotten pushed into harbor. Seaweed. Rotting fish. Gasoline. He breathed it all in: solidifying the memory, cruel as it was. Turning it from liquid to solid, freezing out the chance that he might lose it. He couldn’t let himself lose a single moment, not when he knew he’d never get another one. Underneath it all, he still couldn’t let himself think of it too sharply, too clearly—that hurt too badly.

But he couldn’t let himself forget.

  
  


-

Season 9, Blaseball Gods’ Day

“ _Ortiz Morse retreats to the Shadows... Mike Townsend emerges! Everybody, Mike Townsend is_ back!”

-

Season 10, Day 9 and a half

The flight from Dallas to JFK had been _especially_ bad. The buzz of the plane had filled Declan’s ears with cotton, his headphones helping even less than he’d hoped. He’d tried to sleep. Everyone had. But by the time they touched down, the whole team was giddy with post-plane energy and, hell, the Garages were throwing a postgame concert after their exhausting five-base game with the Mills, and why not?

_Why not,_ he mused to himself while keeping a death grip on his can of beer. Maybe because “postgame concert” after a bad Garages loss usually meant “Jaylen Hotdogfingers’ three hundredth wake, even though she’s alive now, which you’d think would make it weird or something.” Maybe because they had a game in Boston in the morning. Maybe because Declan’s brain already felt like it had been fried in peanut oil, and he was allergic to peanuts.

He flopped down onto a barstool, giving himself a moment to close his eyes and tug on his necklace. He ran the chain through the skate bearing that hung from it, one way and then the other, cherishing each metallic click.

“you good, man?”

Oh, well. “Who’s asking?”

“uh. it’s me, mike?”

Declan’s eyes popped open. “Townsend?”

And it was. Decked out in an away jersey, Mike Townsend looked every bit as mediocre as the interviews boasted. “haha, yeah.” He took off his cap and scratched the nearly-mullet beneath. “that’s me!”

“I knew you sounded familiar,” Declan hazarded, going for somewhere between ‘I’ve definitely played you before’ and ‘I usually pretend not to know you when someone asks.’

“that’d be the lowercase, yeah.” He shrugged. “side effects.”

“Of what?” Idiot. Stupid Declan. Un-norting, obviously. Everybody knows that.

“oh, looks like you figured it out in narration. i get it, i say shit without thinking sometimes, too.”

Declan opened his mouth. Closed it again. Tried one more time. “Heard you guys lost today.” Fuck.

“pretty bad, yeah! i mean, i didn’t. this one’s on arturo and penny.” He took a sip of some garbage IPA. “for once.”

“Look, uh, Townsend—”

“mike.”

“Mike. I’ve had like, a pretty shitty day, so I’m not feeling—” He searched for the right words. “—conversational,” he finished lamely.

“sorry, i thought you guys won? congrats, by the way. or sorry again if you didn’t. i’m not overly sober.” He waved his IPA, swaying a little. 

“No, I just—” Whichever Garage was on guitar played a piercing final note to their solo, and his teeth wanted a _divorce_ from his mouth. “Some days are just. Harder. Today is one of them. I’m wearing headphones at a concert, in case you didn’t notice.”

“oh! oh, yeah, cool. wasn’t sure if that was a fashion thing or something.”

This was a bad conversation. Nothing about it was good. “I mean, that too.”

“it vibes though.” Mike narrowed his eyes, staring at Declan an amount he is not used to being stared at. “like, i wouldn’t wear them, but it’s a vibe for you.”

“Thanks?” The drums start off on _their_ solo, and Declan’s ready to go. He’s just gonna stand up, walk out, go back to the hotel like a sad little man, and hope that the bus to Boston is quiet, which it never is—

“if you’re that uncomfortable do you wanna like. get out of here?’

“Townsend, you’re a fuckin’ mindreader.

“mike, and i. can’t really argue with that.”

“Should I ask?”

“nah.”

-

It’s not like Manhattan was quiet, but it wasn’t a small club full to the brim with Garages and fans. The night was cold and humid but it didn’t smell like rain—to be fair, it mostly smelled like weed. Declan leaned back on the concrete wall of the club, pretending to be as casual as anyone out here taking a smoke break. He did _not_ think about his jacket touching the obviously _filthy_ surface, probably getting stained or at the very least brushing up against some used gum or something—

He did _not_ think about it. He was looking _away._ “You’re not playing tonight?”

“nah.” Mike let himself fall backwards, too, letting out a quiet “oof.”

“Why not?”

“i’ve fronted the last, like, five shows. they’re milking the mike townsend (is back) gimmick pretty hard.”

“Yeah?” Declan pulled his jacket tighter around himself against the cold.

Mike echoed the movement again, starting to button his faded denim jacket. “i’m supposed to play at elections, so they might keep me tucked away for most of the season. so that it’s like, an event, y’know?”

“Mm.”

“novelty’s worn off, anyway. things go by pretty quick in this sport. sometimes i feel like i’m too slow to catch up.” Mike fumbled with the last button on his jacket, his elbow brushing against Declan’s arm. “sorry.”

“No, I get you? I think?” Declan sighed. “I’m always a little out of touch. You’re out of time. I’m outta my head when you’re not around.”

Mike snickered. “is it thursday already?”

“Literally no clue.” Declan reached into his pocket for a lighter, pulling it out and flicking it on and off idly. He focused on the flame, letting the city lights blur.

“you smoke?”

“Huh?”

“weed?”

He hesitated. “Yeah. So much weed, all the time. I’m really good at it.”

“hang on, lemme…” Mike started to dig around in the interior pocket of his jacket, having to stuff his hand under the hem to reach it. Declan couldn’t help but wonder why he didn’t just unbutton it.

“rude. anyway, found it.” He popped open an Altloids container and pulled out a joint. “can i get a light?”

“‘Course.” Declan flicked the lighter back on. He really didn’t want this to be how he tried weed for the first time, but at least it was Mike and not one of the cooler Garages. He held the lighter in place as Mike leaned forward, making a frankly incomprehensible amount of eye contact with Declan the whole time. “You can just—it seems like a fire hazard to light it in your mouth, bro. You have a lot of hair.”

Mike leaned back, exhaling a cloud of smoke into the night air. “thanks. i use conditioner now! nobody told me how _soft_ it makes your hair.”

So that explained nothing. “Poggers! Proud of you, man.”

“anyway.”

“Anyway.” Mike was holding out the joint. Presumably for him to take it? “Shit, dude, listen—”

“you don’t actually smoke.”

“Yeah.”

“yeah, figures. this is shit weed anyway.” He stubbed the joint out on the wall. “sorry if i peer pressured you or whatever.”

“Nah, nah.” Declan looked up into the light-polluted sky. Not a single star visible. Tucked away like this, he could almost pretend he was back in Chicago. “I’m used to it.”

“oh?”

“I mean, the Firefighters are always trying to get me to ‘eat more protein’ or ‘go outside’ or ‘stop playing Minecraft for two seconds we have a game tomorrow you son of a bitch.’ Even though video games are proven to improve your hand-eye coordination! And I mean, the Crabs are twice as bad. They’re always trying to get me to join their cringe nautical-themed cult. Whenever I stayed over at Tillman’s—”

Not a single star visible. Not a single one, no matter how closely he looked for one.

Mike’s hand is warm where he lays on his shoulder. “you good, man?”

“Whoa! Uh, not really!” Goddamnit. He might not be one of the cool Garages, but this was Mike Townsend and he was still a Garage. _The_ Garage. And Declan was crying in front of him.

“hey, hey.” Mike’s quiet, raspy voice was close to his ear now. “it’s cool.”

“It is most definitely not cool, bro,” Declan said, forcing the words out. The growing tightness in his chest had burst all at once, leaving him curled around himself, hands tucked into his jacket pockets _hard_ to give him some semblance of gravity. He screwed his eyes shut.

He could hear—he could _feel_ Mike let out a deep sigh, the warm air blowing strands of Declan’s hair against his neck. “suzanne, breathe. what’s wrong?”

“Sorry. Sorry.” He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets.

“is this about henderson?” A sharp intake of breath. “shit, were you guys—”

“Don’t wanna talk about it.”

“totally, uh, yeah. oops.”

It was fine. Mike needed to know it was fine. But Declan didn’t want to say anything, and he didn’t want to embarrass himself by trying.

“don’t worry, i get it. i barely spoke after i got back from the shadows. i’d gotten really used to not being able to, you know?”

Hang on.

“yeah, don’t worry about it, it’s a pretty cliche narrative device at this point. anyway, when i first got back, there’s a reason i didn’t play the first show of the offseason. took me a few weeks just to get my shit together enough to go out in the daytime. it’s rough to have skin again after years of… not? honestly, i’m not sure if my skin was skin or not. who can say, you know?”

Declan took a shuddering breath. He let himself lean into Mike’s hand, still waiting patiently on his shoulder. “Sorry. Thanks, also.”

“like i said, it’s cool.” He laughed, clearly uncomfortable. “if you don’t mind me asking, though—”

Declan opened his eyes. “Okay, this is cringe as hell, but. We weren’t even dating.”

Mike blinked. “uh?”

“Like, we never made it official?” He let out a dry laugh. “We barely talked at all. I’d just, be in Baltimore. Or he’d be in Chicago. Or we’d both be in San Fran.”

“don’t call it that,” Mike muttered.

“Huh?”

“west coast solidarity. anyway, tillman?”

“Fuck. Yeah.” Declan dragged himself down the wall, burying his head in his hands. “I don’t know. He and I were a thing, but we also were never… a _thing?_ So sometimes it feels like I don’t get to…”

“he never belonged to you, so you don’t get to be someone who lost him?”

Declan snapped his fingers. “That! Yeah.” He looked up at Mike. “How did you know?”

“uh. i’m kind of a poet.” He smiled, though the corners of his face were still creased with mild concern.

“He was just so _unperturbed_ by shit. Fuckin’ unperturbable. He’d be personally responsible for the Crabs losing their playoff chances, and he’d be like: Declan, come vandalize the Blean with me!” He giggled, teetering on the edge of a sob. “And I’d go with him. And we’d make out in the back of the Camino, and I wouldn’t ask him any questions ‘cause it’s not like he had answers. And he’d say no homo, and I’d say no homo, and he’d fly home.”

Mike slid down next to him. “you think that was him being perturbed?”

“What?”

“like. wild concept, i know, but some people like being around other people when they’re upset.” He turned to look at Declan. “that’s fine. it’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

The wind felt like it was going to blow straight through him. “Huh?”

“if you need somebody? that’s fine, man.” He threw an arm around Declan’s shoulders, the gesture bordering on affectionate but not quite making it. “no one’s gonna dunk on you for it.”

“Psh. Tell that to Rivers.”

Mike furrowed his eyebrows. “maybe i will.”

He couldn’t help but laugh. “God, no, holy shit. Do you value your _life?_ ”

“most days, yeah.”

“Hey.”

“point is,” Mike said, “no one important cares. we’ve all lost somebody. you’ve lost someone, too.” Another breeze blew down the alley, and Mike pulled him closer. He smelled—well, mostly like weed. But also, faintly, like the beach. “you’re entitled to a little comfort.”

Like the beach back in San Francisco, all pot smoke and saltwater, all exhaust and ozone. Like a jacket thrown down on the sand, just big enough to fit two. Like _shut up, Suzanne._ Like _shut me up yourself, coward_. Like a hand finding its place on his cheek. Like a fist twisting in his shirt.

Like words left unsaid. 

“Townsend—”

“call me mike.” 

“Mike.” Declan reached across Mike’s lap for his other hand, trying not to make the gesture seem pathetic. Avoiding any mention at all of _desperate_. “Would it be weird if I…”

“fuck it, suzanne. not like i had anywhere to be tonight,” he said, and he was grinning, and he was kissing Declan, and it was messy and overwhelming and awful for a moment until something hitched under his ribs and something stopped screaming in his head and _oh._ Mike’s breath was hot on his lips, his hand firm and gentle at the base of Declan’s neck, his kiss steady and slow. It was the kind of kiss that made you feel like you were the only person in the world worth caring about. His other hand pressed into Declan’s chest, and suddenly his weight was on Declan’s lap, and _oh but in bold this time._ He didn’t know where to put his hands. He wasn’t sure he’d _ever_ known where to put his hands. 

Mike broke away for a moment, taking a breath. “is this—are you okay?”

“Very. Yes. Very okay, fuck.” Declan reached up, cradling Mike’s jaw. “Very.”

And it’s softer this time. Sweeter. Longer. And this time Declan could almost forget Mike’s there at all, with how the kiss makes him feel. It feels like his hands are _everywhere,_ stumbling over every inch of him, pushing his jacket off one shoulder, pulling up the hem of his shirt. And then his lips, holy _shit,_ on Declan’s neck.

“Townsend.”

“god,” Mike breathed. “do you have any idea how long i’ve waited for someone to say my name like that?”

He could get used to this. He was used to hot and fast and smoking, self-destruct button under his thumb. He was used to rocks thrown at his window, music blasting from a cell phone, morning embarrassment. He was used to racing heartbeats and the sound of a car door shutting. The sight of someone walking away for the last time.

He was used to Tillman, and Tillman wasn’t here. Mike was, and Mike was a lukewarm sort of kind—a bittersweet sort of alive. And Declan could get used to _alive._


End file.
